


Tristeza não tem fim, felicidade sim

by 57821



Series: Greek myths reinterpreted through Phantom [1]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Here I go again with the angst, Inspired by Orpheus and Eurydice (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Leroux verse, M/M, Red String of Fate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:28:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26001166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/57821/pseuds/57821
Summary: Death has chased Erik tirelessly throughout his life.
Relationships: Erik | Phantom of the Opera/The Persian
Series: Greek myths reinterpreted through Phantom [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1928062
Comments: 8
Kudos: 6





	Tristeza não tem fim, felicidade sim

Death was constantly at his heels with it's whitened skull taunting him, mirroring him. Swishing it's bright scarlet cape around him, stance eager, looking more like a Man ready to dance than something ready to plunge into him, dragging him by it's thin white bones deep down into the Underworld.

From the fits that had terrorized him at a child, leaving him ditzy and confused - and as for his mother, remorseful and frightened. From the melancholy that threatened to eat at his life force, some days leaving him bedridden. In the shape of sickness,  _ yes, _ Erik he was no stranger to the leering eyes of Death. Many a years of him both in childhood and chasing him to his adult years bouts of coughs and influenza eating away at his fragile body. Vomiting spells that would leave his stomach bare, knocking the wind out of him, gasping. Facial powders and creams that he had hoped help heal his predicament leaving him in utter agony, wafers that promised to improve his complexion left him collapsing, utterly helpless. 

Already decayed from the outside at birth, his body did not stop at that and was determined to kill him from the inside as well. 

_ Le mort vivant _ , how he lived up to his Freak name.

So he runs. From his so called home in France, from the Freak Shows to Russia and to Vietnam until he's smack dab in the middle of Mazenderan. Death is at his coattails and it is only a matter of time before he meets his end. He sees its shape in the corner of his eyes, ever watching, ever patient. In the eyes of his failed assassins, in his ailments, waiting for the right moment to strike. Erik escapes everytime, practiced. Habitual. Only time will tell when he'll finally trip and fall, caught in the twines of that mighty red lasso that he finishes off those who wish him harm. And Death will be there waiting in his final moments with open arms, dressed in blood and gold with it's long velvety cape trailing on by, poised and proud standing tall over him. 

Predator versus prey.

Only which is who?

"You exhilarate me." Rahim traces a smooth line against the porcelain white of where his cheekbone would be.

As of late he has discarded his black masks in favor of white, for they held out a great deal better out in the heat to come.

White is the color of death in the Southern East, he had learned sometime during his adventures down there before all this, while red is the color of joy.

How ironic.

"Erik will die soon." He huffs heavily under his mask.

"Come what now?” Rahim furrows his brows, clicking his tongue, “Who have you offended now?"

"It is by nature and cannot be helped." Erik replies curtly, in his usual manner, lashes fluttering, gloom bubbling at his throat.

He hopes it is hearing, wherever it is.

Feeling Rahim’s soft dark eyes upon him, he glances up and finds them watery. 

"Oh come now, don't look at Erik like  _ that _ ." 

Guilt throbs at him for dragging him of all people into this, into his little chase with mortality.

A steady palm over his hand.

“You’ll get through this, we’ll.” Rahim promises, determined.

Erik hopes so.

Attachments are a tricky thing, abandonment issues and whatnot instilled in his psyche. The concept of proposition was a rare thing and left him reeling in offense, convinced that the other party was intending on playing a practical joke. Often not, it left him scrambling with confusion if not insult. But with Rahim it's different and as much as that man would protest, he was, if not as almost as stubborn as he was when in the act of pursual. How he had the patience to endure him in all his moods, even to come to love? It left Erik in awe.

Pressing his palm against his lips, Rahim kisses it softly, a prayer of protection and Erik as emotional as ever bites back the urge to sob.

He remembers first arriving in Iran's fresh renewal, a new year in spring, the weather being reasonable at that time, perfect. Beautiful pink blossoms sprouting high, spending his time pouring over blueprints, scratching at his pencil. Spending his golden years alongside him, Rahim the ever watchful, getting them mixed up in the trickiest of situations to the other's displeasure. He finds he can relax, live his life shrouded in black amongst his partner's blossoming Mazenderan and for once, he thinks he's at peace. 

A cycle of the seasons later and he’s still here by his side, in the city for the next turn of the New Year. 

Erik hopes for many more.

The next day, he's out and about for once by the persuasion of Rahim, hoping to rejuvenate his spirits. Despite hanging close near him, Erik's tastes get the better of him, eying a stall holding newly crafted instruments and he slips away but not without a word to his partner before he goes. Civilians parade around in their fine threads, loved ones together off to celebrate the equinox, the triumph of life and the plentiful seasons to come. In between the sea of colors, he feels a strong grip seize his hand. A flash of red, he doesn't need to know who it is. With a free hand, he snaps at it's bony wrist, feeling a crunch under his fingertips as he loosens himself from it's grasp, carefully fleeing the scene. Navigating the city in the height of festivities is harder than navigating the busiest day out in the bazaar, the blur of dyed fabrics and sheer vivid color only stimulate further his already weakened eyes.

Easing his steps into an alleyway, dark and dripping water, he exhales, steadying himself on the cold wall of an elaborate building. Cursing, always unused to the familiar press of a crowd and with that spectre at his heels? A feminine wail puts him out of his irritation, echoing all around, bursting into song. Beautiful and airy it cries out, in language he is not acquainted with. Sephardic. Something so familiar yet so foreign.

He races toward the voice, footsteps heavy, pattering underneath brick, advancing towards its owner. Seizing them by shoulders, he sees that glare of vermillion, that fire and he wants to dash back to the comfort of the crowd, the safety of strangers, into Rahim's arms. 

But it is too late. 

A white skull, human, clashes onto the pebbles that outline the street, piercing and sharp like porcelain, breaking into millions of pieces and red engulfs his vision. 

Eyes are upon him. Stomach churning, heartbeat hammering too fast, too hard and he knows his time is through but then. Then for some reason, curiosity surges in him. The natural cursed urge of humanity. He looks up.

A gentle face. Soft, pure and blessed of beauty. High piled curls reach out to the sky. Hazy bright eyes, similar to of a child's stare back at him, overflowing with youth.

She grins, victorious.

And then?

Then, there is nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely based on the 1959 film, "Black Orpheus". In this piece, Erik takes on the role of Eurydice, Daroga as Orpheus and Christine as Death.
> 
> The title is taken from the lyrics of the song "A Felicidade" from the film "Black Orpheus". It translates to, "Sadness has no end, Happiness yes."
> 
> Rahim is my name for "The Persian". 
> 
> The New Year festival I allude to is Nowruz, which is celebrated right at the start of spring.


End file.
